


Black As Night, Sweet As Sin

by anastasiapullingteeth, demonsonthemoon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Coffee Shops, F/F, Fic Wars, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastasiapullingteeth/pseuds/anastasiapullingteeth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: It was late at night when Grantaire entered the coffeehouse in the center of Paris, the same old place where Éponine worked at. After meeting a couple of strangers that soon made their way into their hearts, both of them would find out how easy their lives could change in the chaotic 1832.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fo the challenge [Fic Wars](http://autisticvoltronld.tumblr.com/post/165921763076/i-have-a-dumb-idea-fic-wars) (by autisticvoltronld): "Two authors. Ten chapters. One fic." And… Well, fasten your seatbelts, kids. We’re here for a ride.

The sound of the bell when Grantaire opened the door alerted everyone inside the café. It was past nine, the time when almost everyone in the city began to retire to their homes, and thus the room was fairly empty, save for a few lost souls taking up the chairs in the front. All the eyes were focused on Grantaire, a second that stretched far too long as the languid man crossed the threshold, dragging his feet over the hardwood floor of The Café Musain.

The coffeehouse, a well-known place in the center of Paris, was an ancient construction where pariahs and travelers found a refuge out of the inclement weather and paranoid soldiers patrolling the streets of the city. It was common to see a few new visitors every once in a while, nursing a hot cup of coffee while familiar faces, most of them our of their senses, drank their weight in liqueur in an attempt to numb their misery. Grantaire was one of them, one of the few that spent most of his time with a glass of Madame Hucheloup’s finest wines between his fingers, ignoring the chaos happening around him, doing absolutely nothing to fix it.

When the stares of the customers lowered down, Grantaire walked the few steps that separated him from his favorite place at the far end of the café. As he waited for one of the girls to approach his table, his eyes roamed around the establishment, basking on the sight of the people gathered there, always the same crowd: old men looking for quick love from the occasional prostitute, the shoemaker and the button of his waistcoat barely holding his bulging bowels, a group of students that looked way more motivated than Grantaire ever did, and... His breath caught in his throat when he saw the man sitting right across from him a couple of tables ahead.

He couldn't be older than twenty, and his bright, copper hair caressed his shoulders as he bowed his head over a stack of yellowish  papers he was avidly writing on. Grantaire could only see the side of his face, but his pearled skin seemed to glow with the light of the candle standing in the center of the table; a soft smile graced the boy's lips and Grantaire felt warmth settling down in his belly. He stared openly for a moment, until someone lowered down a bottle of wine in front of him with a thud.

"Same as always, I presume," a feminine voice declared, and only then did Grantaire raise his head to look up at Éponine, one of Madame Hucheloup’s serving girls. "Enjoy," she said sourly, handing him an already filled crystal wine glass, although they both knew Grantaire would dismiss it sooner than later to drink straight from the bottle.

He took the glass and made a silent toast to Éponine, emptying half of it in a single gulp. The woman didn't leave, and Grantaire saw his chance to strike up conversation. "My dearest Éponine, would you mind to tell me who's the new lad over there?" he asked, pointing with his head at the boy he'd been staring at, feigning indifference.

Éponine glanced over at the stranger and then back at Grantaire with narrowed eyes. "All I know is he's poet, or so he said. He got here last night." Grantaire hummed his approval, running his eyes over the boy's slim body. "Why so interested, monsieur?" Éponine added, cocking her hips and planting a hand firmly on her waist. "You've never paid that much attention to anyone that isn't the bottle of wine I leave at your table."

Grantaire almost spat the drink he'd just taken and glared up at the girl. "You offend me, I am nothing but curious about the people that walk inside this café. That boy looks like someone you shouldn't be serving liquor to, I must add."

Éponine rolled her eyes. "Because you are, oh, so worried," she snarled. "I wouldn't waste my time if I were you, monsieur. The boy seems to be from a good crib, he'd never share the bed with the likes of you." And with that, the young woman parted, leaving an astonished Grantaire behind.

 

Just as Éponine was approaching Madame Hucheloup behind the bar, the door opened again, giving way to a newcomer. This time, only the poet and Éponine directed their attention towards the door to see a young woman walk into the room while fixing her wet coat. Éponine's eyes followed her gait, until she sat down at the corner, looking around herself as if in search of some kind of potential threat; Éponine was no one to judge: they saw all kinds of people wandering the streets of Paris these days and, whatever this girl had been through to cause such an amount of distress in her, was nothing Éponine had not heard of before. Sighing silently, she strode slowly to her, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"What can I get you", Éponine asked politely, startling the girl.

"I, uh," she stuttered, redirecting her green eyes to Éponine. She looked lost inside the café, and Éponine almost felt sorry for her. "I.. something warm? Please, I'm freezing."

Éponine cleared her throat and nodded, going back to the bar. As she waited for Madame Hucheloup to serve the coffee, Éponine looked discreetly at the woman, weirdly fascinated by her kind demeanor, even in such hard times. It wasn't like she had never seen someone like her before --small town girl from a good family and, probably, an easy and simple life--, but this girl looked both vulnerable and fierce at the same time; it was a strange combination that had Éponine completely dumbfounded. It reminded her of someone, although she couldn't pinpoint who exactly.

"The poor girl," Madame Hucheloup cooed, catching Éponine by surprise and making her jump. She smiled knowingly as she handed her the cup of coffee. "Maybe she needs help," she added before Éponine could escape. "Why don't you talk to her, see what we can do for her," she instructed, giving a small push to Éponine's back.

Making sure she hadn't spilled anything, the young woman went back over her steps with a slight blush, and put down the cup on the girl's table. Green eyes looked up at her and Éponine forgot why she was there. "If you, if you need somewhere to spend the night, there's an inn around the corner with some rooms available. The owner is fair and will understand if you... if you, uh..." she trailed off, waving her hand.

"I'm out of money?" the blonde --she was blonde... Éponine had just noticed-- finished for her, cocking her head shyly.

Éponine nodded, not sure if it was okay to leave now or not. Her dark brown eyes met Madame Hucheloup's, and the older woman smiled, encouraging her to keep talking with the stranger; Éponine shook her head as discreetly as she could, frowning at the disappointed look on her boss' face.

"Excuse me," she heard a dulcet voice coming from the blonde sitting close to her, and Éponine looked back down, fearing having been discovered.

"Hmm?"

"I was wondering if, maybe, you could keep me company for a moment?" Éponine's frown deepened. "You're not obligated to, of course! But... Please? I won't dare to make you lose much of your time, I swear."

Éponine wasn't sure if it was the unmistakable plea entwined in her voice, or Madame Hucheloup's silent order in the corner of her eye, but Éponine wrapped her fingers on the back of the closest chair and, hesitantly, pulled it back to take a seat.

"Thank you," the blonde said.

Éponine wasn't used to talking with the customers, save for Grantaire, whom she found certain pleasure in plaguing. She had made herself a reputation of not being very affable, which would have been a problem in the business, hadn't been for the fact that most of the Café's visitors were either drunkards or of even more questionable morals. Madame Hucheloup alway begged her to soften her stance and open up to people, but Éponine knew it wasn't safe; the least people knew you, the harder you were to track. And yet, here she was, watching bewildered as the other woman drank her coffee, rubbing her ungloved hands on the cup to warm them up, waiting patiently until she decided to speak.

"Is it always like this?" the blonde inquired, licking her lips; Éponine mimicked the gesture.

"Like what?"

"So quiet."

Éponine shrugged her shoulders, for lack of something better to do or say.

"My dad used to talk me about the wondrous Paris. I never thought it would be like this."

"And where is he?" Éponine asked, unable to contain herself. "Your father, I mean."

"I'm on my way to meet him. We separated in Montreuil-l'Argillé a few days ago as we traveled by foot. We were trying to reach the city."

"I wish you luck on your journey, madame," Éponine said sincerely, standing up. She felt out of place with this woman sitting across from her, in the middle of a coffee house Éponine had known for years but that, somehow, felt completly different as the blonde stared back at her. She seemed disappointed, but didn't argue, nor asked her to stay any longer. "I have to go back to work, if you don't mind. We are about to close."

"Okay..." was her only response and Éponine began to walk away. "Wait," the blonde called again before she could get too far. "I... I never told you my name." Éponine stopped on her tracks to look over her shoulder. "My name's Cosette."

Éponine nodded, refusing to reveal her own name. "Nice to meet you," she declared, resuming her way; she was halfway through the back of the bar when she paused in sudden realization. "Cosette," she gasped, full of surprise as she covered her mouth with her hand. "Now I remember..."

 

Grantaire was still staring at his empty cup when the mysterious boy rose from his seat, gathering his papers without rush. Whether it was Grantaire's usual impulsiveness, or the wine numbing his common sense, he decided last minute to stride towards the young man, ignoring Éponine's outrageous --but not for that less true-- words. The stranger had stopped in his tracks to read one of the papers, still standing next to his table, and Grantaire saw his chance to reach him.

"Excuse me," he said as a form of greeting, interrupting the young man's reading. Up close, Grantaire could see small freckles embellishing the pearled skin, one in particular falling close to the corner of the boy's mouth; Grantaire felt a delicate smile stretching his lips with undeniable delight and he had to restrain himself from tracing the mole with his finger.

"Oh, of course, yes," the boy said, oh so adorably, tilting his head. “I'm about to leave, you can take this table.”

Grantaire's smile widened as a brilliant idea crossed his mind.

"I couldn't help but to notice I haven't seen you around here before,” he hurried to add stopping the stranger in his haste. He efficiently recaptured his attention and it prompted Grantaire to go forward with his plan. “Would you allow me to treat you with another cup of coffee, perhaps? On the house, of course. I wouldn't want you to think that we, in this fine city, are impolite hosts."

The boy suppressed a smile and Grantaire considered it a small victory. “So you work here.”

“I do, indeed,” Grantaire ventured, hoping the boy hadn't seen him draining drink after drink a few minutes ago. “About that coffee? It's a mere courtesy to our new visitors, and it helps in these cold nights,” he insisted, wishing to calm down the other's wariness.

“In that case, I would gladly take your offer.” He resumed his place in the chair he'd been previously occupying and waited for Grantaire to bring his drink.

Grantaire, for his part, still surprised that the boy had fallen for his deception, walked as casually as he could to the bar. “Madame Hucheloup,” he whispered. “Serve me a cup of coffee, if you may.”

“Coffee?” the woman inquired, throwing him a skeptical look. “Since when do you drink coffee?”

“Do not question me,  I beg you. It's for a deal I'm trying to seal with the young man over there.”

Madame Hucheloup’s brow arched, still suspicious, but she didn't ask any more questions and handed over the cup of coffee. “No funny business with my customers, Grantaire. Or I will kick you out of here.”

He winked playfully and went back to where the boy was waiting for him.

“For you, monsieur.” Grantaire deposited the cup on the table and smiled down at the man whose name he still hadn't heard.

“Thank you.” He responded, gracing his finger over the rim of the cup before looking up at Grantaire, who was still staring back at him. “You are welcome to take a seat at my table, if you dispose of time. But only if you share your name with me, first,” he demanded.

"Those who know me refer to me as Grantaire," he presented his hand for the boy to take.

"Jean Prouvaire," the boy, _Prouvaire_ , said in return, narrowing his eyes at Grantaire's vagueness regarding his name.

He offered Grantaire the chair across from him, before taking a sip from the cup. He hummed pleasantly at the flavor, finally looking up at the man anxiously waiting for him to talk. Prouvaire seemed curious but wary about Grantaire, and he couldn't really blame him; they were facing hard times, it was better not to trust anyone. Although, even when Grantaire would never consider himself someone trustworthy, he had no bad intentions towards Prouvaire, and it was only interested in a night of mutual pleasure with the boy. It was a novelty to encounter someone as refined and beautiful as him traveling alone, and Grantaire was sure he wasn't the only one fascinated by his presence. Which brought up his next question:

“Pardon my boldness, but I ought to ask. What does it bring you here? Are you in hopes of finding someone? Maybe a family member or… a friend?”

Prouvaire licked his lips before answering, his amber eyes --what a captivating color that was-- gleaming with the lights coming out of the candles lighting the room. “Something like that,” he finally answered. “I don't know if I could call it a friend anymore, it left me long time ago. I'm hoping to find some inspiration.”

“For your writing?” Grantaire asked and the boy cocked an eyebrow. “I'm sorry, I saw you. Before.”

“For my writing, yes. And now, if you don't mind, I will go back to my room and try to sleep. It's been a long day,” he announced, drinking what remained of his coffee, and getting up of the chair. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

As he watched Prouvaire walking towards the exit, Grantaire wondered with sorrow if he, perhaps, had spoiled any chance with this man after his rude intrusion into the boy's business. He heard Prouvaire’s steps getting away from him, until the heavy wood plank squealed opened.

“See you soon, monsieur Grantaire,” Prouvaire announced his goodbyes from the door, tilting his head before stepping out to the cold street.

“See you soon,” Grantaire whispered, a simpering smile stretching his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee shop au and canon era are two things I cannot write. Is it too obvious?
> 
> \-- Caro (anastasiapullingteeth)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies that this chapter took so long to write. I have a long list of excuses, but you probably don't really need to hear them. I really am sorry though.  
> \- Meeni

Jehan pulled his collar up against the chill as he exited the coffeehouse. He looked around carefully, making sure that the surroundings were as safe as they could be before stepping into the street.

He had to keep himself from jumping at every sound, or from reaching for the gun in his pocket just because a beggar asked him for change. Jehan hated this. He hated the fact that he felt so much more unsafe in this neighbourhood than around the university or his parent's estate. He hated that he knew he was right to feel unsafe, having not crossed one patrol of guards since he had left the coffeehouse, now a good ten minutes ago.

Maybe he really would join the group Courfeyrac had told him about. Things had to change. It wasn't right that people like his parents were able to pretend everything was all right when the rest of the city was like this. Dark, broken, and killing itself from the inside.

Jehan could remember the day of the Rising clearly. It had only been three years ago after all, a lot of people could. One day, Paris had been its usual self, full of problems but also of a particular brilliance that drew people to it, and then a few hours later its citizens had woken up to screams. The noises had seemed to come from everywhere at once, and still haunted Jehan's dreams to this day. The screams of the dead coming back to life, and the screams of the living under attack, not understanding what was happening.

Most people had nightmares about that night.

But for some, the nightmares were still real, still unnaturally alive.

As with everything, the poor had had the worst of it. Their neighbourhoods were more populated, which had meant that the plague had spread more quickly, claiming way too many victims before national guard troops had finally been mobilized. They had managed to clear the city from the strange pandemic, although nearly a third of the population had died in the process. (Died, and been destroyed, so they wouldn't have to be killed again.) And, since then, the poorer quarters had been left unpatrolled. More people kept dying.

Some of it was due to dead people or animals not being taken care of properly, waking again and attacking any living thing in their path. It was less common with animals, for some unknown reason, but most humans would wake again if given the chance.

There were other causes of death though, as always. Petty conflicts that degenerated. People who took advantage of the situation, commiting crimes they knew would go unpunished because the police and national guard were too busy figthing the dead.

And so Jehan toyed with the gun in his pocket, unsure if he was expecting to be jumped at by a feral cat, his great-grandmother or an over-enthusiastic thief.

It was sad. Frustrating and sad. The young man was used to seeing so much beauty in the world, and he knew the beauty was still there, somewhere. It just seemed like he didn't have the eyes for it anymore.

But wasn't it now, more than ever, that people needed beauty ? Wasn't it now that his words were needed to bring, if not hope, at least a temporary relief ?

Oh, Jean Prouvaire fancied himself a poet. At least he did in times of relative peace. Today he felt as lost as everyone else in the once beautiful city of Paris, now filled with empty houses, the constant smell of burning meat and too much fear on every face.

Well, maybe not every face. There had been that man – Grantaire – in the café Musain. He had been smiling, not afraid. He had seemed open, unguarded, though Jehan assumed that was more a facade than anything. Nobody was ungarded these day. Still, curiosity was better than hostility, and a rare commodity these days. That was why Jehan had accepted his offer of one more cup of coffee. He was curious himself, in a way. It felt strange to think that people were still interested in one another, still living their lives instead of floating suspended out of time like it seemed Jehan was.

He had to shake himself out. His family was worried about him, they meant well. They were scared, just like all Parisians were. That was why they had retreated into their own little world, made possible by their money and reputation. Still. Jehan needed to get out. He couldn't survive by keeping himself confined to his parents' mansion and the university halls. He hadn't written a single poem he liked in more than two months. He didn't know if inspiration was to be found in the poor neighbourhoods of Paris, in the strange coffeehouse where Courfeyrac's revolutionary friends met or in the eyes of a dark-haired stranger. He only knew that it couldn't be found in his closed-off routine.

Jehan smiled as he remembered the promise that had easily tumbled out of his lips as he had left the café. A simple “See you soon.” Much could be held by those three simple words. Probably just as much as what could be contained in the smile he had received alongside Grantaire's answer.

Jehan's stepas became lighter, less purposeful. Behind the smell of smoke and meat, the rain had left something richer. The cobblestones seemed to shine under a thin layer of quickly-drying water. So there was hope after all. Some beauty left and waiting.

Jehan stopped suddenly, hearing a high-pitched sound. He strained his ears. It was coming from a side street to his left, and Jehan went into it, hand on his pistol.

It wasn't hard to find the source of the screams, not with how loud they were. One house in the alley was fronted by collapsed scaffolding, and under a pile of wooden debris, the head of a cat was protruding. Jehan felt sick. The animal was covered in blood, one eye more a bloody hole than anything else. It kept on howling, apparently oblivious to Jehan and trapped beneath the rubble. Its fangs closed up on empty air with every one of its screams.

It was dead, Jehan told himself. Or if it wasn't, it would be. There was no way to save it. It was too much of a risk. The young man felt bile rise in his throat. The howls were truly awful, a mix of pain and hungry rage.

He could wait for a guard patrol to take care of it. That's what they were there for, after all. It was a nicer neighbourhood already, they were sure to come by at some point. But... Well, someone could come by in the meantime. A child. They could get too close, get attacked. Something could happen. And...

Jehan just couldn't handle the screams. He couldn't bear to see a creature suffer so much. Even if the thing wasn't supposed to be alive anymore.

He looked around and found a heavy piece of wood that had been part of the scaffolding and was easily reachable. The cat started hissing at him as he came into the line of vision of its still intact eye. Jehan took a deep breath. He swung the half plank above his shoulder and brought it down on the small animal, closing his eyes and shivering at the sound of wood hitting already fragile flesh.

He let the plank drop and turned around, not looking back to see if the creature was dead for good this time. He couldn't handle it. He ran back to his parents' house.

Oh, to find the beauty in this world.

 

Cosette knew which way to exit and enter the city without being controlled.

It was easier than she had thought. Paris was supposed to be the safe heaven, the big city, the symbol of France and its resilience. She had been expecting much more of it, but maybe the disappointment was her own fault. The Rising had affected everyone, everywhere. It was a girl's foolishness to think that the city would have somehow been preserved, to think that because they were more organized, had more ressources, they wouldn't have suffered. Cosette knew she had to grow up, that she couldn't think like a little child anymore.

And maybe acting like an adult meant waiting at her new house, instead of sneaking out of the city to wait for her father. But Cosette couldn't help herself. Warmed by a cup of coffee and the timid company of another girl, she felt like she could take on the world. That was at least one thing that promised to be different from her life in the countryside. She had new people to meet here, strangers without expectations she could learn to know and love. And the people of Paris did seem less on edge than the few people surviving in the small towns she and her father had passed through on their way here. But who was Cosette to blame those villagers? She'd had her Papa to help her through the whole ordeal, to protect her and teach her how to take care of herself. Most people hadn't had anyone to lead them through the tragedy. They were lost and scared, and Cosette's heart ached for them despite her not knowing what she might be able to do about it.

Leaving the coffeehouse and its waitress with a slight twinge of the heart, the took a carriage to the Montparnasse neighbourhood. It wouldn't be suspicious, since she looked old enough to be the kind of girl frequenting students. From there, she could exit the city through Grenelle. The route ran close to the Grenelle slaughterhouse, which meant most people would be too scared to walk by it, but at the same time it wasn't as dangerous as the Southern cemetery nearby, and therefore didn't warrant the attention of national guards.

Her father had planned all of it, and also planned for them to arrive at different times so they would avoid raising suspicions. Although, now that she had been in Paris for more than a day, Cosette knew that this last fear had been unwarranted. As long as they avoided patrols, no one would ask a question. Everybody was much too busy looking after their own self to raise an eyebrow at anyone who wasn't actively threatening them. Cosette wasn't even sure why they had to avoid patrols. Her father was a respectable man, she couldn't think of anything he had to hide.

She sighed, having finally reached the unguarded city door. Everyone had something to hide, she supposed, even if it was just the loneliness they felt. She hid herself from sight behind a house, choosing a wall that gave her a view of the city door but that didn't have any window she could be seen through. She settled down to wait.

Just as she had suspected, she didn't see many people walking around. It was late, dark and cold. Nobody should want to be here. She did see _some_ people though. Mostly men sneaking in or out, some that could have passed as simple travelers and others who were obviously smuggling things into the countryside. Everytime one of them passed, Cosette hid herself, held her breath, and clutched the knife her father had given her a year previously. She had never had to use it against anyone yet, but had handled it often enough that the weapon rested comfortably in her palm.

Then Cosette saw a large-shouldered man, a figure which she recognised. What she didn't recognise, though, was the shape carried in his arms. She frowned. But Cosette trusted her father, and so she checked behind her that no one was coming, and stepped onto the street from behind her hiding place. She raised her hands above her head, making sure her father knew she wasn't a threat before he recognized her. As he continued approaching, she could finally see his features, and saw them relax from a tense expression to a smile of relief, before shifting to confused annoyance.

She wasn't supposed to be here. Cosette knew that, but she didn't care. She couldn't keep the smile off her own face, so glad to see that her father was okay. Then she noticed that the shape she had seen him carry was not a bundle of some sort, but a small child, trembling.

She felt a weight rise from her chest and settle in her throat, remembering a similar embrace around her own tiny body. She reached out with one hand.

“Cosette?” Her father rock, voice low and raspy. “What are you doing here?”

She raised her head, away from the shivering child. “I came to see you. I wanted to be sure you'd be there.”

“It's not safe. I told you to stay safe, what if something had happened?”

It was a long-standing argument between them. Cosette wanted to tell him that she was an adult, that she had to start taking care of herself if she wanted to one day be able to take care of _him_. But her father wouldn't listen.

“Who is this?” she asked, shifting the conversation away from herself.

Her father's grip tightened around the child for a second. He looked down, then back up at his daughter. “I don't know. I'm not sure. He was... He was abandoned.”

“What?! Why...”

“He's sick,” her father said. “His family didn't have the money for a doctor and... they were scared of what would happen. If he...”

He trailed off, as if to spare Cosette the image. As if she hadn't learned that every space left silence in a sentence refered to the rising of the dead, to mindless bodies desperately looking for food, for something that would make them feel again.

“What are we going to do?”

There was no way they would just abandon a child. If her father had taken the risk to carry him to Paris, it was because he had hope that they could do something for him.

The older man looked at her. It was a look Cosette knew well, one that made her uncomfortable. A look that made it seem like her father could scarcely believe that she was here with him. Almost like he felt he didn't deserve it.

“Can we take him in until he's better? Take him to an orphanage?”

Her father shook his head. “I'm not sure. I don't know if the orphanage still has the means to be run. Maybe a congregation...”

Cosette saw him hesitate, and in that moment of hesitation she also saw him droop forward slightly. Of course. He had carried the child all the way here, he needed to rest.

“We'll find a way,” Cosette said. “Let's go.”

She almost added _home_ to the end of her sentence, but thought better of it. Paris wasn't her home. Maybe it would be. As much as any place can be a home when the dead walk the streets and people keep secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which you learn that my genre constrain was "zombie apocalypse", that my writing style is super different from Caro's and also that I'm a sucker for worldbuilding.
> 
> \- Meeni (demonsonthemoon)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [@spacewiix](https://tmblr.co/mipiA1BSpMGTN7TwpCSdXrw) for helping us with the setting of this story!


End file.
